Curiosity and Satisfaction
by enigma-kar
Summary: "Curiosity had killed the cat and, this time, there was no satisfaction to bring it back." Spoilers a many for 1.03.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own Sherlock.

A/N: ___My first (and quite possibly not my last) delve into the world of BBC's _Sherlock_. I know this scene has probably been done to death already, but here is my take. __Basically this is _not _how I'd like to see the cliffhanger resolved, but I tend to write angsty stuff so this is what I came up with. _

___May be OOC, but I did enjoy writing this. :) Enjoy and please let me know what you think (and if I should quit while I'm ahead). If you do like this, I promise to bring happier, fluffier _Sherlock _in the future. :D_ _Spoilers for 1.03 and warnings for character death, clichéd last words and for S/J slash (if you squint), because we all know there is definitely something going on between them... ____Reviews are love. :P_

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Curiosity and Satisfaction.**

There was no denying that Sherlock Holmes was the best in his field. Some would argue that was only because he was the _only _one in his field, but the point still stood.

But as he knelt on the ground, staring at the lifeless form in front of him and felt the tears rush down his numb cheeks he knew he had failed...

For a long time he seemed to be drifting; the only thing that brought meaning to his life was his joy of solving crimes. The simple hitch in his breath and the grin that would slowly spread across his face at the mention of a crime; the intellectual puzzling mysteries that only he could solve. Again, some would argue (and in fact they did) that his glee at hearing about a serial killer clearly made him a psychopath (Sherlock could tell they still called him that behind his back, no matter how many times he said he was a high functioning sociopath and that, yes, there was a difference). And then there were others who didn't argue; other members of Scotland Yard and even the public said nothing, merely regarding him warily. But Sherlock saw it in their eyes. He saw their fear and their discomfort. Even Lestrade at times.

And then Dr. John Watson came along.

When they first met there was no fear, just curiosity. 'Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.' It was a phrase Sherlock often lived by and in the first minutes of meeting John he knew he lived by much the same philosophy.

Then, for once it surprised Sherlock; they were friends before he even had the chance to ponder it. John was his first true friend since... forever. The only man that understood him, who made him his tea and never complained, who he could text and not receive a reply from knowing that John was smiling (or fondly scowling, take your pick) on the other end. Sherlock suspected that, given time, their friendship could have been so much more. But time ran out.

They were at the pool. Sherlock glanced over at John for the briefest of seconds before turning his gaze back to Moriarty and the bomb his gun was pointing at. Even from the distance he could see the look of surprise in Moriarty's eyes. This was something he hadn't considered. The red dots still flickered on both John and Sherlock's bodies, but all three of them knew that if Sherlock pulled the trigger there would be a limited chance of them surviving.

"Go on then," Moriarty suddenly broke into a smile. "We'll all burn together."

"Sherlock..." John trailed off, unsure what to say and the detective glanced at him again. John swallowed and nodded again under Sherlock's piercing gaze. He would not allow himself to be scared by the conflicted look in the detective's eyes.

"Go on Sherlock. Finish it!" Moriarty shouted tauntingly and all eyes turned to him again. There was a pregnant pause.

"On your head be it then," Sherlock finally muttered and at that moment John knew he was going to pull the trigger.

He did.

The blinding white of the explosion flashed in his eyes and deafened John before the cold water swamped him. In the millisecond before Sherlock had pulled the trigger John had leaped, colliding protectively into Sherlock and sending them both diving into the pool. In the back of his mind he was vaguely away of the pain currently spreading through his chest. He'd been shot. Possibly by a bullet meant for Sherlock. But that didn't matter right now. He knew his lightening quick, military reflexes had possibly saved the other man. And for some reason, that was all that mattered.

It seemed like a age later that he was breaking the surface, gasping not for air but in pain. There was a groan and John realised Sherlock was pulling him up and out of the pool. Through blurred vision he was able to see the damage. The stalls nearest the explosion had been atomised; there was a five foot wide crater in the paving, impacting on the deep end of the pool, which had sent water everywhere. Moriarty was nowhere to be seen and John presumed he had run off. The red targeting dots had too, disappeared.

"Sherlock..."

"John... I'm here," Sherlock's voice wavered and John looked up at the sodden man. His wet hair clung to his face and his suit, completely wrecked, stuck to his form like an extra layer of skin. His blue-gray eyes shone with unshed tears, but from what John could see, he hadn't been shot.

"You're safe," John gave a weak smile.

"Yes," Sherlock said and John's body relaxed in relief. "I..."

"You don't have to say anything," John muttered. Sherlock nodded, his lips pursed tightly together and he pressed a firm hand against John's wound, stemming the flow of blood. The doctor cried out in pain, closing his eyes.

"No John. Stay with me," and it suddenly dawned on Sherlock that he was losing his best friend. His only friend. And it was his fault.

"So you do have a heart," John whispered, opening his eyes to look into Sherlock's wide ones.

"What? Of, of course I do," Sherlock muttered, blinking more than strictly necessary. It hurt John to see the detective so upset; more than the bullet wound in his chest did. It was the most genuine emotion he'd ever shown and probably the last John would ever see.

"It just took a poor dying man for me to see it."

"Damn it, John!" Sherlock cursed. "You're not going to d-"

"Listen. Don't blame yourself for this," John cut him off, the effort showing on his face. "I... I made my choice and I wouldn't have missed it for the world. And..." he groaned before continuing. Sherlock knew they would be his last few words. "Carry on, Sherlock. Give Moriarty the ending he deserves. Carry on with what you do and... do it for me..."

John was gone before he heard Sherlock's whispered "I love you..."

Typically, thunder cracked loudly outside and there was the sound of heavy rain on what remained of the pool building roof. In any other case it would have seemed archetypically hilarious and clichéd and he and John would have laughed. But not this time. Rain poured down outside as the chlorinated pool water mingling with the tears Sherlock barely knew he was crying. It was his fault. He'd brought John into his life.

Curiosity had killed the cat and, this time, there was no satisfaction to bring it back.


End file.
